Tag Archives: QPOC

Here’s the thing — a little more clarification is necessary since it seems that the confusion continues.

First of all — this is not a competition for fans or views or reads. When we set out to launch malintZine on December 21, 2012 we had a vision of offering an anonymous space for women to speak their truths. Truths that had been silenced for too long. MalintZine has been and will continue to be a radically safe space that will ferociously protect the anonymity of our authors. But malintZine and her authors are not just the women who you’ve seen in photographs — we’re everywhere!! Indeed this space has been used to call men on the mat for their straight up bullshit and specific instances of fucked-upedness, but it has also been a safe space for sharing experiences than span the spectrum from fear to rape. We were not under the impression that the presence of our truths would come easily for anyone involved including ourselves. The truth tears down barriers, destroy relationships and bring others together. While we might have hoped otherwise, personal attacks were expected.

Since December 21, 2012 malintZine has grown into a larger community than we could have imagined that stretches from LA to Colorado, New York and Baltimore with a strong core of amazing mujeres in Tucson.

We were honored and blessed to have participated in and hosted events in the last week in Los Angeles and in Tucson. We were invited to speak in Maylei Blackwell’s class and sit on a panel with Maylei and Anna Nieto Gomez. In 1971 M.E.Ch.A held a mock funeral procession that was a ritualized attempt to kill Las Hijas de Cuactemoc. They carried caskets and walked with candles to a makeshift graveyard with gravestones for Hijas leaders and a lynched effigy of Anna Nieto Gomez (with her name inscribed). It was an honor to meet Anna, who stood up to the misogynistic Chicano leaders of her time, and a humbling privilege to sit beside her on the panel.

On Friday March 8th we had the pleasure of hosting Andrea Smith for a powerful discussion about accountability with well over 150 people in attendance followed by a launch party that brought together the community of malintZine readers, authors and editors. The ability to have the physical manifestation of the safe space that had been created online at malintzine.com was quite the event. There were poetry readings, zines, and plenty of music. Yes, there was a piñata and yes it was male bodied and yes we beat it with a stick until tamarindo, chamoy, lube and condoms gushed out. Yes, a drag king who resembled Three Sonorans attended the party and photos that have since been made public were taken. Three Sonorans has become the living embodiment of contemporary chingon politics. By his own doing, DA Morales has turned himself into a caricature of a 50-year history of misogynistic one-sided Chicano Movement narrative that holds its male leaders in blameless esteem. Herein lies the point — maltinZine was created to counter the continuation of that narrative and on Friday night we celebrated.

And finally, we expect that you will continue your personal attacks on our motherhood, on our loyalty, on our motives, on our writing skills, on our education or lack of education, on our age, on our perceived sexuality, on our children and on our character — but your attacks don’t blight the truth. You may know who we are but you should also know that we are not going away. If there is a month where you cease to spew your false problematic narratives — we will be happy to keep your name of our blog (maybe!).

We are malintZINE, an online zine featuring the stories, thoughts, and interests of radical mujeres, some of color and some queer, based in Tucson, Arizona. We’re putting together a paper zine while we prepare for some exciting upcoming events in March—and we want your contribution! Send us your original writing, and, especially, your graphics, comics, and any other form of visual art.

Artists: we’re only accepting submissions online, so please scan your art and send it to us! If you have an art piece to submit, but it can’t be scanned or photographed, contact us—we’ll see what we can do to record and include your work.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: February 14, 2013

To submit contact us at malintZINE@gmail.com

* Not everything submitted will make it in to the 1st publication of the zine; however, it may be included at malintZINE.com. The editorial board will select the final writings and arte for zine. We will not publish writing that re-creates violence and oppression, or that normalizes problematic language/content—for more info, check out our online zine: malintZINE.com

I walk into a gas station convenience store, pick up my Snapple and head to the register to pay. “Good evening, Sir. How are you doing today?” I ask, with a smile on my face. “Good, how are you?” the clerk responds.“I’m doing well” I say. He tells me my total and I hand him a $20 bill. While making my change, he keeps looking up at me. I know this look. He is trying to figure me out. My baggy clothes and fitted hat are making it hard for him to identify me. He looks me in the eye and says “are you a boy or a girl?”. I hate this question. It makes everything awkward. “Does it matter?” I respond “I just need my change”. I can see my change in his hand. I can see the look on his face. It has quickly changed from a smile to a scary look of anger, confusion and frustration. “I need to know. Why won’t you tell me? Why are you doing this?” I shake my head, take my keys out of my pocket (just in case I have to run) and I say “What am I doing to you?” hoping he will see how ridiculous this line of questioning is. “You look like that and you won’t tell me if you’re a boy or a girl.” I look him in his eyes, snatch my change out of his hand and quickly walk to my car.

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

I am pacing in front of a public restroom again, my eyes darting back and forth between the two signs. Heart racing. Palms sweating. Men. Women. Men. Women. I don’t fit into either category. A mother walks out of the side marked “Women” with her kid, so I figure this would be a good time to go in because it’s probably empty. I dart towards a stall and I see a woman standing at the sink washing her hands. I walk into the stall and latch the door. “Excuse me. Excuse me. EXCUSE ME! Are you a boy or a girl?” the woman at the sink yells. I don’t know what to say. My deep voice is only going to make the situation worse. She is now banging on the door, trying to push it open. The door is shaking in front of me. She isn’t letting up. I pull up my pants, close my belt and open the door. I rush past her and walk out of the restroom. I can hear her screaming after me. I just want to get away from the whole situation. But I still have to pee.

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

The workweek is over. I am ready to enjoy my weekend. I walk to the corner, raise my arm and try to hail a cab. A group of young men and women are standing on the sidewalk 10 feet away from me. They are looking at me and laughing. I’m trying my hardest to ignore them. “Yo!” yells one of the men.” “Yo, I’m talking to you. What the fuck are you?!” I am starting to panic. I begin to walk away. “Don’t fucking walk away from me, I’m asking you something!”. I can hear his footsteps running up behind me. He grabs my shoulder, steps in front of me. He’s pissed off. I look at his face and think “he looks like he could be my brother”. Same skin color, same face shape, same lips and nose. He grabs my collar with both hands and slowly says “are you a boy…or a girl?” I get myself out of his grasp and say “just leave me alone” and I turn around to walk away. I see stars when his fist knocks into the back of my head. I turn around and begin to defend myself, but my brain and body aren’t responding the way they should. I can’t believe this is happening in broad daylight, with people all around us. As he is punching and kicking me, I can hear his friends laughing. This isn’t the first time this has happened to me but I always hope it will be the last. “Maricon!” he screams as he kicks me one last time. He picks up his backpack, joins his friends and walks off with a smile on his face. No one helped me. No one even noticed.

You don’t have the right to ask me that. It is none of your business!! Because you really don’t care about how I identify and respecting that identity. You want to know what is in between my legs and furthermore, why?? You don’t have a right to my body. You especially don’t have the right to get angry or violent because I don’t want to answer you.

The man from the last story shattered my knee. It is a source of constant physical pain in my life and with every step I take It’s a reminder of what hate and ignorance can do. It is also a reminder that although we shared identity and community as people of color, he still hurt me. Where are we going wrong that we are making victims of the most vulnerable people in our own communities? Whether it’s sexism or transphobia/homophobia played out through hate-crimes or domestic violence, there is a problem. How are we to move forward, if we are causing pain in our own families? We are supposed to heal each other, lift each other up. And as of now, we are failing at that.

“Although only an estimated 2 to 5% of the population is transgender, 1 in 12 Transgender and Gender Non-Conforming people will be murdered. The average life expectancy for a transgender person is 37 years old. 49% of transgender people attempt suicide. A nationwide survey of bias-motivated violence against LGBT people from 1985 to 1998 found that incidents targeting transgender people accounted for 20% of all murders and about 40% of all police-initiated violence.”- transgenderlaw.org